


Bellaria

by misspamela



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspamela/pseuds/misspamela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Virgin Marcus. Yes, that's the extent of the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bellaria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/gifts).



> Huge thanks to Celli for betaing!

Rome adored Marcus and Esca. They were heroes, of course, but even better, they were entertaining. A man fights to bring honor to his family, a slave faithfully serves his master in abject devotion (a story that would never have gotten off the ground had any of the tale-tellers actually met Esca) and is rewarded with his freedom; honor is restored, Rome is covered in glory, and the two men survive, equals and friends at last. The story had spread through the Empire like wildfire and had grown three times for every retelling. It was foolishness, of course, and Marcus was eager for the whole thing to die down. But being a hero had its benefits; Esca was awarded full citizenship, an honor he did not care for in the least, and Marcus was awarded a small plot of land adjacent to his uncle's farm. He'd been offered a choice, in fact, of going back to his childhood home in Erturia or remaining in Calleva. He'd answered quickly, thinking that Esca wouldn't want to leave his homeland.

And then he remembered that Esca was a free man, a full Roman citizen. Marcus had no hold on him in Britain or in Rome. Accepting the land was a gesture of hope on his part, an appeal to Esca to stay with him in some capacity, though he couldn't imagine how. He’d been avoiding talk of the land, of going back to settle, as he was unsure of what would come after. Esca was no longer a slave. Marcus was no longer in disgrace. But Esca had little means in Rome without Marcus’ patronage, and Marcus...well, he no longer felt quite so Roman. Surely Esca would come to regret tying his fate so tightly to a wounded, eccentric soldier who knew little of farming and nothing of any other trade.

To add to Marcus’ discomfort, there was the issue of marriage. They had been honored in Rome and in Britain, with wine and great roasted lambs and sweet figs dripping with honey. Women were offered to them, slaves, but neither Marcus or Esca were comfortable with using slaves as such anymore. More disturbing, to Marcus' mind were the older women, the rich merchants' wives who pushed their daughters on him, promising dowries and political connections if he would only consider young Octavia or Julia or Camilla. Marcus smiled and refused them all, discomfited by the idea that he was, eccentricities aside, suddenly very marriageable.

"Do you not want a wife?" Esca asked him. They were staying in some rooms not far from the British border, traveling back from Rome, weary from the endless feasts and the even more endless conversation. "That last one, Octavia. Did she not suit you? She seemed like she was quite intent on winning you." Esca was reclined on his bed, just a few steps from Marcus' own.

"I hadn't considered it," Marcus said. "It's a new idea to me." Marcus lay back on his bed, his fingers clasped behind his head. "I must confess, the thought of marriage holds little appeal. I've spent my life amongst men, training in my every waking moment to be the best soldier, the best commander that I could be. My life was a sacrifice to Rome and she was my wife, in a way. I needed no other."

"I can't imagine Rome warms your bed at night," Esca said, laughter in his voice.

Marcus smiled. “No, she does not. Though she did when I was young soldier, barely a man, and filled with so much righteous passion that I burned with it.” He laughed. “It was a wonder my commanding officers didn’t douse my head in a bucket.”

Esca laughed as well. “I can imagine it. You are not so different now.”

“But I have no career to speak of, no means beyond fleeting fame and a few acres of land.” He shrugged. “I suppose I could take a wife.”

“At least take a whore,” Esca said, bridging the distance between their pallets with his foot, nudging Marcus’ leg. “Or you will have no outlet for all that burning passion.”

“I suppose,” Marcus said, falling silent again. He tried to imagine it, One of the sophisticated Roman prostitutes. A woman with perfumed hair and soft skin...he could not picture it. It was vague and half-formed, like many of his ideas about women. “I’ve never had a prostitute.”

“Never?” Esca asked, surprised. “Not even a camp follower?”

“No,” Marcus said, shortly, uncomfortable with the turn this conversation was taking. He had shared more of his life with Esca than he had with anyone else, but not this. Not this, that was too close to his heart.

“Ah,” Esca said, knowing. “Another soldier, then.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders loosely under his tunic. “It is common among the warriors of the Brigantes, as well.”

And _that_ image was as clear as a summer’s day; Esca, lithe and muscled, wrestling with another youth, their bodies flexing together, the slip-slide of skin turning into something more serious, more urgent. Esca’s eyes darkening in desire...

Marcus brought himself back to the present. There had not been any other soldiers. Such things happened, of course. It wasn’t reason for discharge, unless you were blatant about it, but it was just another reason for men to whisper; another black mark, another sign of his bad blood. Marcus couldn’t afford such dalliances, not with the name _Flavius Aquila_ trailing behind him like a stinking cloud.

But perhaps it would be best if Esca thought there had been; he would drop this line of conversation and they could move on to discussing more pertinent matters, like the troublesome storm brewing to the south.

Esca was looking at him curiously. Some of Marcus’ discomfort must be showing on his face. He was never good at lying, and certainly not to his closest and dearest friend. “No,” he said, finally. “There was nobody. I was...I am a driven man, not given to desires of the flesh.”

“And there are taboos,” he said slowly. “I know you laugh at our Roman more, but they are ingrained so strongly.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Such relationships exists, of course. Between soldiers, when they are young or isolated, or between men and boys, or with slaves. But it is only a powerful man who can get away with such things without some comment. For me, it would have been more fuel to the fire of their disdain.”

He wished he could convey to Esca the dept of his yearning, his fear. “I couldn’t,” Marcus said. “Not even...” he trailed off, watching Esca’s face, half-obscured by the dark. He didn’t want to give insult, or expose his feelings too baldly.

“Not even when it was me,” Esca finished. Marcus could see a smile passing quickly across his face, there and gone again. “You thought about it then? When I was your slave?” Marcus couldn’t read the tone in his voice. He was speaking lightly, but Marcus knew the weight behind it.

“I would never…” Marcus said, looking for the words. “You would fight,” he explained. “I knew you would fight me. It would be taking, that way. I am not a man who takes such things.” He knew better to explain that it would be different with a biddable slave, a quiet slave who submitted to their master. Esca would not understand, and Marcus found that he no longer had the stomach to tolerate discussion of such encounters either.

“But you wanted, to,” Esca said, crossing the room to kneel at the side of Marcus’ bed. Marcus shrank back a bit at how close he was, the scent of him, the thrum of energy from his body, close enough for Marcus to reach out and touch, to _taste_. Marcus tried to control his breathing. His cock had betrayed him long ago, when Esca had first started talking of such intimate things, and was hard and aching against his tunic. Marcus clenched his hands to keep himself from reaching down and covering himself. He was exposed, ashamed.

“I wanted,” Marcus said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “You are very fine,” he said, knowing that he could not spin half-truths here. Honesty had always served him well. “You are fine, and you have such strong limbs and a proud face and a brave spirit. I admired you reluctantly, then whole-heartedly. You are my friend and brother, and I want...” he trailed off, then shook his head. “But I cannot dishonor you with such thoughts. I am sorry.”

Esca sighed, but the sound was fond, not angry. “I’m not Roman,” he reminded Marcus, as if Marcus could ever forget such a thing. “This does not shame me. But,” he said, his voice low and rough, as he slid his hand down Marcus’ jaw, sending shivers across his whole body. “I’m glad you did not try to take me when I was a slave.”

“Why?” Marcus asked, trying to keep his voice neutral while his body was burning. The spot where Esca was touching him, just on the side of his chin, felt as if it were on fire, sending throbs of pleasure through his body. He had never been touched so, not with _intent_ , and it was making him feel as though he could find release like this, just being touched there, just breathing the same air as Esca.

“Because you would be dead,” Esca said simply. “And I would not be here, now, doing this.”

"Doing what?" Marcus asked, like a fool, because he knew; he knew what was happening, even though this wasn't a threshold he'd crossed before. This heavy, fraught moment was a thing he knew before battle; the moment where men faced each other and paused, out of respect or fear or shock of the thing they were about to do, the blood that was to be spilled. He had never felt it like this, between two people in private, the same blood-singing thrill of battle without the grim fear of defeat. There would be no defeat, not here. Marcus had long realized, since his return from Caledonia, that he was not such a conventional Roman anymore. In this thing, least of all.

Esca put his hand on Marcus' chest, hot and heavy. Marcus sucked his breath in, squirming in anticipation of more, restless under the light friction of his bedcovers. He clenched his fists, not wanting to touch himself, saving that pleasure for Esca. Esca's hand slid down Marcus' bare chest, down to the muscles of his stomach, the contact igniting a fire in him, a burning need roaring in his ears and singing through his blood. Mindless as battle, relentless as the ocean. Marcus twisted and bucked, seeking that hand, seeking more, more, more. Esca bit his lip and shifted against the bed, obviously uncomfortable.

Marcus was not a maiden, despite his inexperience. He was not about to lie back and be gently taken, no, he was a bit more conventional than that! Quickly, he reached an arm out and wrapped it around Esca's waist, hauling him up with the intent to bring him on to the bed.

He could feel the full length of Esca’s body against him, stiffened in surprise. For a moment he thought Esca would pull back, but he merely braced himself on his elbows, his face hung in shadows above Marcus. He leaned down and bit at Marcus’ lip in a savage imitation of a Roman’s kiss, fierce and wild.

Marcus bit back, savoring the feel of Esca’s rough stubble, the quick slide of teeth and tongue, the press of their bodies. He didn’t know where to put his hands; there was the span of Esca’s shoulders, so much broader now that they were so close, the corded muscle of his back, the insistent press of his thigh between Marcus’ leg. Sensations overwhelmed Marcus. It was too much, not enough, fire and ice and a rising, relentless tide. He could feel his release coming, imminent but elusive as he scrabbled for purchase against the rough fabric of Esca’s tunic, rutting against his thigh like an overeager dog. It was not enough, not quite enough, and he was desperate to see it through.

“Ssshhh,” Esca said, pulling back. Marcus almost gasped at the cool air rushing between their bodies where the contact broke. Esca made quick work of his own clothes, chest and belly and cock becoming visible in the pale moonlight. His hands clumsy with desire, Marcus did the same with his own clothes, thinking unaccountably of his old commander, Aurelius Cicero, and how he’d laugh if he could see Marcus so dumb-fingered and slow. He was seized, on that thought, with another thought that chased on its heels, what his commanders would think if they could see him now, naked and flush with desire for a freedman, and shame and desire rose in him again, even as Esca returned to the bed.

“I wish...I would take it slow,” Esca said, pressing his cock against Marcus’, giving lie to his words. “But I find I cannot.” He wrapped his hands around Marcus’ wrists and pressed them together, body to body, cocks straining together, just the right combination of friction and pressure. Marcus could feel that tide rising in him again, larger than before, and he could hear himself saying, as if from a distance, “Yes, yes, please, yes,” as he spent and spent and spent between them.

He could hear Esca gasp and stutter his hips. “That is,” he said, but Marcus never knew what it was Esca intended to say, as he let go of Marcus’ wrists, rocked back on his knees to take his own cock in his hand and pleasured himself, hips snapping, his eyes closed and, through Marcus’ haze of pleasure, the most beautiful and wild thing he’d ever seen. Unsure of what to do, Marcus reached out and pressed his hands to the insides of Esca’s thighs, smoothing his way up the muscle there. At his touch, Esca stiffened and gasped, bowing forward as he spent, collapsing, sticky and hot, against Marcus’ cooling skin.

Marcus felt that there was something he should say, some words of affection or appreciation, but all that he could think to say was _please stay, please stay_ , and that was unfair. Best to take this gift as given, he decided, watching Esca as he peeled himself from Marcus with a mischievous smile and cleaned them both.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling Esca closer when he was done, carding his fingers through his hair. “Thank you,” he said, foolishly. His face burned. Thanking him! A former slave! His face burned even hotter at that unworthy thought.

Esca said nothing, but laid a hand gently over Marcus’ before they both fell asleep.

...

Marcus woke before sunrise, the habits of a soldier so long bred into his bones that he always leapt from full sleep to full wakefulness, with no time between to laze abed, as many men did. Esca had moved over to his bed sometime in the night, as they were both full-grown men and neither of the beds were intended to share for long. He was still naked, the furs draped loosely around his hips, one long, bare leg emerging from them to dangle over the edge of the pallet, his toes brushing the floor. He was clean, Marcus saw, in contrast to the stickiness that had dried on Marcus’ belly and hands, and Marcus did not know what it meant, if anything, that Esca has taken the time to wash away the signs of their lovemaking before returning to their bed.

Marcus relieved himself, then washed his own body, his Roman fastidiousness winning out over his desire to be marked, to keep the evidence of the strange, wonderful night, not knowing if there would be another one.

Esca stirred. Marcus realized that he was simply standing there, in the pre-dawn dark, staring at him, and moved hastily to his pallet. He wondered if Esca would greet him with a kiss as he awoke, or if he would simply ignore what had transpired between them. Or perhaps he would be angry, or sad, or regretful. Marcus felt a curious twist in his heart at that thought, even though he thought his heart had nothing left to give, when it came to Esca.

Stumbling over to the wash basin, Esca splashed some water on his face, then went to relieve himself. Esca seemed unaffected by the night before, nearly completely silent, as he always was in the mornings, until the labors of the days “woke his blood,” as he once told Marcus. When he returned to the room, naked and stretching, he mumbled, “We leaving now?”

“No,” Marcus tried to say, the word sticking in his throat and clattering there until it died. Marcus coughed and tried again. “No,” he said. “It is merely my bad habit of waking before the sun. Please, rest some more.” Too formal, but Esca would not notice, not before he was completely awake.

 

Watching Esca's hands move over his own body, scratching at his chest, put Marcus in mind of those same hands moving over his own body, talented and sure. He could think of nothing else, his desire growing, not urgently, but pleasantly, like the slow pour of honey over fruit. Marcus did not know if their encounter was unique, if it was merely a night of diversion for Esca, or if they were now lovers in fact. If they were lovers, Marcus could touch Esca anytime he liked. The idea sent a sharp spike of desire through him, imagining bitten-off cries in his ear, tumbling down into straw, onto furs, under the stars.

Marcus Flavius Aquila was not a blushing maiden. He was a hardened veteran of several wars and carried many scars. He need not sit back and wait to be wooed. If his advances were unwelcome, he knew that the love between him and Esca would not sour because of it. If not lovers, then brothers, if need be. Whether Esca stayed or left, it would not reflect on his love for Marcus, he knew that, and that knowledge emboldened him. His stomach turned to water, but he had faced down more fearsome enemies than this one fierce, beloved Briton.

Crossing the distance between their beds, knowing his desire was evident in his eyes and body, Marcus fell to his knees next to Esca and took his hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

Esca smiled, still sleepy, and tugged on Marcus’ hand. “And I thought you would be all stiff and proper this morning,” he said. “You surprise me.”

“I surprise myself,” Marcus admitted. “But I cannot stop, now that we have started--” he bit down on that admission, as if he could stop it after the words had escaped.

“Why should we?” Esca asked, surprised. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Unless you do want to take a wife?”

“No,” Marcus said. On that point, he was sure. “No wife.”

“Well, then.” Esca pushed the furs and blankets to the floor and stood, doing the same with Marcus’ bedthings. “These beds are too small for grown men,” he said, as he crawled into Marcus’ lap, his eyes glinting wickedly.

“I shall build you the largest bed known to man,” Marcus said, stupidly, as Esca began to suck sharp little bites into his neck. “With the finest furs.” Marcus didn't know where to put his hands. He wanted to put them everywhere at once, so he chose to map Esca's skin with his fingertips, gliding them lightly up and down his flanks, letting one hand splay briefly against his buttocks before bringing them back up to grip the hard curves of his shoulders. Esca shivered, then bucked his hips, a low growl in the back of his throat.

Something broke inside Marcus. That sound, that low, primal vibration in the back of Esca's throat made him realize his own power. This was not a game of dominance and surrender; he lost nothing by giving and Esca lost nothing by his taking.

Marcus grabbed the back of Esca's hair, tugging his head back to expose his neck. Esca bucked again, grinding his cock into Marcus' belly. At first Marcus thought he was going to fight against his grip, but he simply rolled his hips again, his cock hard and leaking, trailing fluid across the taut skin of Marcus' stomach.

It was almost too much. Marcus closed his eyes against the sight, willing his body to back off from the edge. He dove to taste Esca's exposed neck, biting his way up to Esca's jaw. "Everything," he mumbled, nonsensically, into Esca's gently stubbled skin. "Everything, everything."

Esca laughed and oh, Marcus would never tire of that sound. "Yes," he said, "everything."

Marcus relaxed his grip on Esca's hair, allowing him to push forward and knock Marcus on his back. Marcus twisted his hips, flipping Esca over. This time, he would set the pace.

Esca smiled at him. "The Centurion," he said. "More content to give orders than to follow them." He dug his fingers into Marcus' hips. "Well then," he said, a little breathless. "Command me and see if I obey."

"Obedience was never your strongest quality," Marcus said as he leaned down to kiss him, his cock fitting into the hollow of Esca's hip. He rocked, feeling the soft, sweet slip and slide of their skin together. He heard soft little moans, ah-ah-ah and realized he was the one making them.

Pleasure coursed through him and he realized that he would find release soon if he did not stop, so he pushed back, resting on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, willing the tides to turn inside him.

Esca was laid out before him, flushed, his skin glistening with sweat, hard cock rising between his legs. Esca stroked it lazily, silent, watching him.

Marcus knelt over Esca, panting. Pleasure flowed through his veins like molten gold, igniting him from the inside. How he had lived so long without this? Now he knew why men would kill for this, why they would die for this.

His cock was full and hard in his hand, aching with the need for release. He couldn't help but look at Esca's mouth, shiny and wet from his kisses, but-- no. Such a thing was unthinkable. It was a base act, and he would not shame Esca so. But his cock twitched in his hand at the thought, moisture beading at the tip.

Esca grabbed Marcus' hand, bringing it to his mouth. "Everything," he said. "And perhaps someday you will learn to feast on the full array of pleasures set before you." He sucked Marcus' fingers into his mouth, eyes fluttering briefly shut.

Marcus flushed dully, heat rushing into his cheeks. His mouth watered and he swallowed thickly. Kneeling up, he moved forward, bracing himself on one elbow, his cock in his other hand.

Esca slid down, tilting his chin up, inviting.

Marcus gripped himself tighter, already feeling the rush of release pooling in his belly, heat twisting and coiling, waiting for release. He eased down, brushing the tip of his cock against Esca's lips, smearing moisture across them.

The only sound in the room was ragged, shuddering breathing; Marcus could not tell if it was his alone, he was so lost in pleasure.

Esca opened his mouth slightly and pushed his tongue out, tasting the head of Marcus' cock. The world froze, then white pleasure exploded in Marcus' mind. Rougher than he had meant to, he pushed his cock past Esca's lips and into his mouth, a small part of his mind shocked and silent and shamed, but the rest incandescent with pleasure.

His lips parting easily, Esca took him in, moaning around his shaft, vibrations running up the shaft directly into Marcus' gut. He rocked, imitating the movement he'd found in Esca's hip, thrusting shallowly, straining, ready to burst from his skin. He could feel his release bearing down on him like a hundred horses. Overwhelming, inevitable, release. At the press of Esca's tongue to the root of his cock, Marcus froze and moaned, loud and long, as pleasure burst forth from the very heart of him, shuddering, spending messily on Esca's face and chest.

His legs gave out and he collapsed to one side, shuddering. Lethargy threatened to overtake him, but when he saw Esca reaching for his own cock, he said, "No, let me." He took it in his hand, smooth and hard and heavy, not unlike his own. He noticed with a dim spark of pleasure that the tip was flushed and moist, straining to fullness, as his had been just moments ago. Marcus moved his hand, testing his grip as he would with a new sword or bow.

"Now," gasped Esca, thrusting into his hand impatiently, “is not the time for games. You can play later."

 _Later_ , Marcus thought happily. _Oh yes, later._ He stroked Esca once, twice, then leaned down to kiss him messily, swallowing his moans as his cock spurted between them.

After a few moments of rest, Esca rose to get the basin of water and a cloth. “We shall need a bath,” he said. “Or we will frighten the innkeeper’s wife.”

“She will be jealous,” Marcus said. “That innkeeper does not look like he’d be much fun.”

Esca laughed, surprised. “You should not always be so serious,” he said. “It suits you.”

“I was thinking the same about you,” Marcus said, touching the side of Esca’s face briefly. But why would they not be solemn, stern men? They had led hard lives, of loss and death and slavery and pain. There was little joy to be found in the world, merely the absence or lessening of pain. Marcus felt himself quite unprepared for the abundance of joy he now found himself with.

“I am full,” he said, catching Esca’s wrist and pulling him down beside him, “after a lifetime of starvation.” He turned Esca’s wrist over and kissed it. “You are my banquet and I feast on you.”

Esca flipped his arm to grip Marcus’ wrist, solemnly, as if in oath. “And you are mine,” he said. “Though I confess I did not expect to find such joy in a Roman.”

“We are an odd pair,” Marcus agreed. “But then, most marriages are.”

Esca looked at him oddly. “I am not your wife, Marcus,” he said, laughing. “Now clean yourself and get dressed. We must ride far to see these lands of yours and I will not lose daylight hours to your overwrought poetry.”

His lands. Marcus was suddenly eager to see them, seized with the idea of building a home, working the land, creating a life. And perhaps, someday, he could get Esca to call the place “our lands” and “our home,” wife or not.

His heart lighter than it had been in all his summers, Marcus rose to meet the morning.


End file.
